Unholy Devotion
by Femme Bono
Summary: Crowley is plagued with fallout after Dean Winchester rises as a knight of Hell. Again, Crowley finds himself vying for the throne, but who will help him fight? Crowley/OC. Liable to go extremely AU since no one knows what is in store for season 10. Should be (mostly) canon-compliant. Rated for future chapters. ;)
1. Chapter 1

Ed. note: Grainne is pronounced _grown-ya_.

Cht. 1

Crowley sat in a leather wing-backed chair, staring idly into the fire. His latest minion screw-up turned slowly on a spit over it, his screams quieted now that his vocal cords had burned beyond function. Crowley had once again found his kingdom in turmoil over who rightly controlled the helm of Hell. He sipped his scotch with a sigh and pondered who of all the dim prospects he could trust to help him rein in — so to speak— the hordes of the damned.

It was mere weeks since Dean Winchester had Risen, yet already the newly awakened demon knight had shown signs of not only wanting to howl at the moon, but to chase it and own it. There was already a following, and every day it seemed more and more of his unholy flock defected to the Marked One.

A subtle sound to his left broke him from his reverie and Crowley half turned his head toward the sound. "Sir, it is time for your massage therapy session. Would you like me to dispose of the traitor?" questioned the demon who approached.

"No, take him down and get him trussed up for further questioning. He knows Squirrel 's whereabouts, even if he is proving difficult yet."

"Of course, sir," she replied, and then started to exit as quickly and quietly as she had come.

If there was one stalwart supporter of his regime, it was Grainne. The perfect servant, she never complained and was always there in the background waiting for orders. Crowley rose, setting his scotch on an end table and buttoned his suit jacket. Juliet the hellhound rose from his feet and shuffled off to sniff at the softly smoldering demon on the hearth.

"Grainne," Crowley called.

"Yes, my lord?" she stopped and turned in the doorway.

"You may do the honors."

"Of course, sir," she replied, then closed the door behind her on the way out.

He knew she would go down the long stone hall to the sporting room—for it was sport to demons, torture was—and there she would prep the area as he had shown her, before ordering the prisoner to be brought in for questioning. He knew she would take her time with the delicate process of extracting the information. And he knew this because he had taught her everything. Secure in his mind that at least one of his flock had some measure of competence, Crowley made his way to his boudoir where the voluptuous Adrina waited.

The girl waited by the massage table, long brown locks delicately tousled, a thick sweep of it brushing over smoky eyes of melted chocolate. Her robe was loosely belted, showing an ample display of cleavage. He allowed her to unbutton and slide the jacket from his shoulders before he loosened his tie and stepped out of his shoes.

"Darling," he said, "Daddy is tense today. Work the shoulders, pet."

"Of course," she purred as she helped him divest his clothes. Crowley climbed up on the table as she held the sheet back for him, then he sighed heavily as she draped the sheet over the small of his back and began to stroke and knead at the tense spots.

"Ohhhh yes," he hissed. "That's the spot." Adrina began asking him about his day, murmuring comforting words as he let his cares slip loosely from his tongue. And as she played her hands over the demon king's body, she payed even more rapt attention to what he said.


	2. Chapter 2

Cht 2

As he was wont to do, Sam Winchester dove into research, hunting for some small mention in the Men of Letters texts that may help save Dean. Weeks prior, Dean had risen from his bed and without speaking, had shouldered his way past a speechless Sam in the doorway, with Crowley sitting aghast nearby, and promptly disappeared. There was almost immediately a swath of dead across the middle states—people decapitated by a mysterious hitchhiker. The authorities at first thought it was an animal attack due to the ridges and tears on the victim's wounds, but soon realized that it was done by a strange blade with teeth, thanks to surveillance videos.

Sam had tracked all of this once he finally emerged from a three-day drunk where he cleared the bunker of all its booze. Never had he felt so unmoored before he stood numbly disbelieving in that doorway, clutching the frame as Crowley silently mused over the development of a demon Dean who did not, as it turned out, want to play. Crowley had left shortly thereafter, and between that afternoon where Sam sat helpless on the edge of Dean's bed and the marathon binge session that followed, Sam had lost valuable time that he could have been using to get his very inhuman brother back. Questions surfaced in his mind like swirls of silt from the murky depths of worry and grief. How could he pinpoint Dean's location, and if he could, could Dean be reasoned with? What of Crowley? He had been shunned just as surely as Sam. Could he help in any way? Would he, even if he could? And then if he could find Dean, whether reasoning with him was possible or not, how would he change him back?

Sam rubbed a hand over his face and groaned as he tossed one book aside and picked up another.

* * *

><p>Castiel, meanwhile, lurched through an alleyway. The diminishing grace he had inside him left him weak and disoriented. He knew there was a hunter or hunters nearby who could possibly get him back to Sam and Dean, but he could not teleport and his angel radio was getting sketchier by the day. He felt hollowed out inside and feverish at the same time. He stumbled over a trash can, tipping its contents across the alley and landing roughly to the side of it. He looked up slowly at a pair of scuffed boots that led upwards to a skylark blue fringe suit.<p>

"Wow, Cas, ole buddy…you're not lookin so good fella," said a familiar young man who crouched down beside him.

"Garth," sighed Castiel, "you've got to help me."

* * *

><p>Grainne emerged from the sporting room sweaty and drained, but jubilant. She treaded lightly down the hall glowing with the news she had extracted and the surety that this would garner a rare compliment from His Highness. Normally she would have showered and changed before meeting her King—he detested anything untidy—but this occasion she felt required promptness. She neared his quarters and eased the door open, knowing that she was expected to be as unobtrusive as possible. The King also detested slovenliness and cacophony, unless it was the tortured screams of his enemies. As Grainne slid silently through the doorway, she spotted Adrina and curled her lip in a silent snarl. The latest whore in a string of trollops, this one was angled away from the door murmuring over a chalice of blood.<p>

"Yes, well an ambitious salesman against a Knight of Hell didn't go so well last time, did it," Adrina said to whoever was listening. "But last time he had Winchesters in his corner and now there's a Winchester in the other corner. This _King_ is scared—and he wants to offer up a deal to the Knight. Gambian, if we can set up a 'meeting' with the two, the Knight can take him out easily."

When she paused to listen, Grainne jabbed a blade between her ribs, effectively cutting off any screams and collapsing the traitor's lung. When it came to his massages, the King was all too likely to relax and say something he should not trust anyone with—especially a whore. Between Lola and Meg, he really should have learned.

"Well done," he said from the opposite doorway, already impeccably dressed in a bespoke suit. "I appreciate you not killing the traitor of course."

Grainne jolted at his words, not realizing he had been there for at least part of the time.

"Sir, I—"

"Get this one trussed up as well, then heal her so I can break her again. I shall start the interrogation myself, but stand by."

"Yes sir, of course." With that, she started for the door before remember her original purpose. "Sir, about the other prisoner."

Crowley stopped, half-turned in the doorway. "Yes, how did that go?"

"He's holed up somewhere in Livonia, Michigan. A place called Devil's Path."

"Sir—you're not…actually trying to meet him," she stammered, not wanting to criticize her king.

"No," he replied, sizing her up. "That was a ruse for her to feed them misinformation. I have other plans."

Grainne nodded, returning his steady gaze for a moment until she could no longer maintain it. Then she shifted uncomfortably, missing the way a corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Get her ready," he said. "We'll start the interrogation in ten."

"Yes of course," she said softly, still not meeting his eye, and stepped quietly out the door.

_There we are_, he thought, _one respectably intelligent yet dutiful lackey. Not sycophantic and yet eager to please. Perfect_. He heard her pause just outside the door, but thought nothing of it as he kicked Adrina over on her back and studied her face.

"See what your disloyalty gets you, whore," he said gravely. "This could take years."

Grainne, just on the other side of the door, leaned against the frame to steady herself. The look that passed between them had sent the butterflies shimmying through her belly, and she took a moment in the empty hallway to pull herself back together. Grainne took a deep breath and mentally ticked off every spell item she needed to heal the traitorous whore. _I'm going to really enjoy inflicting damage on that two-faced trick_, she thought. Her normally brown eyes flicked to black at the thought of shedding more of Adrina's blood. Buoyed by the thought of taking out her vengeance on the shifty bitch, Grainne straightened and made her way down the hall to a storeroom, ready to do some damage.


	3. Chapter 3

Cht 3

Hours later Grainne stood opposite Crowley over Adrina's supine form as the whore weeped openly. Grainne and her King, grim and bloody, took their time cleaning each implement as they tucked it away for the time being. Their session had been successful; they were two for two today and as Crowley untied his apron to reveal his shirt and trousers still impeccably clean beneath, Grainne ventured a question.

"Sir," she said slowly, not wanting to show her eagerness for his answer. "Who will you be sending to round up Gambian?"

Crowley did not stop wiping the blade in his hand, nor did he look up. "The specifics of that we will discuss elsewhere and not in front of the whore traitor."

"Understood."

Moments later when they were alone in the hall, having left the girl lashed to the gurney within the room, Crowley told Grainne to meet him in the board room and to bring Damian and Roland with her. She hurried off to find the two, the plush oxblood carpeting muffling her steps. Crowley stood, watching her leave and marveling at how he had never noticed her before. She was not only competent and intelligent, but adept with it and—dare he admit it, even to himself—quite lovely. He made a mental note to learn her story, before trusting her fully.

"Blanchard," he clipped.

"Yes, my Lord," replied an aged man who appeared beside him. Blanchard, his valet, was the only one allowed to transport himself within the hallowed halls, merely for the purpose of answering the Master's whims. "Find out what you can about Grainne. I want to know what her deal was—why she condemned herself and how long she has been 'below stairs', as it were."

"Of course, my Lord." With that, Blanchard was gone.

Crowley had chosen well for the errand, Grainne thought. Damian was strong and wiry, and his soul was black as pitch. He was one of the oldest demons around, and as such he had a deep and abiding hatred for hunters—especially the Winchesters. He was one who would be squarely in Crowley's corner. The one worry there of course, Grainne mused, was that Damian could well try to take over the throne himself at some point. He probably could get quite a following if his ambitions led him to try. Roland on the other hand was quite dull. He was the muscle, clearly, and the vessel he appointed himself was spot on there. All stocky build and squared jaw, he looked the very part of a brawler. Word was he had sold his soul for winning a title of some sort, and Grainne believed he would have done well with bare knuckle boxing.

They sat in a window of three separate buildings, cell phones charging on an end table beside each of them. They had triangulated their positions around one town home on an otherwise nondescript street. Grainne was occupying the meat suit of some heroin junkie who did not leave her flat for days on end, so she knew no one would miss the girl. Roland and Damian had each taken men just as likely to be passed over by anyone of consequence as well. They each had eyes on different sides of the townhouse, just in case any of the inhabitants (all demons) decided to move. For three days, Grainne had sat in that window watching the movements of the lesser demons smartly going through mundane tasks, trying to keep some semblance of the humans' lives they were holding onto. Yet she had not seen the one she wanted to see, and that was Gambian. He squatted inside like a toad, for she could sense his presence as surely as he could feel the three of them, like grim shadows on his periphery. His energy was quite darker than the others, and he was older. He was nearly as old as Damian, but that did not worry her. He was old, and did know a few tricks, but not as many as she. Nor was he near as cunning as her King.

Before her thoughts strayed to Crowley, Grainne saw the front door open and a flinty looking man step out. She quickly grabbed her phone and texted the other two to meet her at a corner, as she watched Gambian's earthly form climb into the back of a taxi. _Looks like this reconnaissance mission is taking a ride_, she thought. She ported quickly to the corner where they had a car, and pointed out the taxi as it turned left onto a main road. They followed far enough behind the cab that they could see it, yet not so close that their presence could be felt.

When the taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a church, they pulled over as well and watched as Gambian climbed the steps into the chapel and dipped inside.

"You're joking," Roland said aloud.

"Well according to the great Google, his meat suit is a deacon," Damian said drily.

Grainne stifled an unladylike snort and slipped out of the car. She increased her pace just enough to pass a lady walking by, bumping the woman slightly as she passed. Grainne mumbled an apology and rushed on around the corner as the lady turned to go up the steps to the church. A moment later, Grainne popped back into the car.

"What was that about?" Roland asked turning to look at her in the back seat.

"I slipped a tracking disc onto that woman."

"What for?" he asked perplexed.

"Wait for it," Grainne said repressively, then she started murmuring in Latin and the boys caught on.

"Grainne, I like your style," Damian said with an amused grin.

Inside the church, the lady sidled down the aisle to Gambian and held out a hand for him to shake. "Deacon, I don't know why, but I've felt a powerful need to pray for you lately." As she said this, her other hand dropped the tracking disc into his pocket while he thanked the lady for her kind words. Without knowing how or why she was compelled, the lady moved back to her usual pew and settled in for the sermon.

"There we are fellas," Grainne said in the car. "No matter where he goes now, we can track him. And so can the dogs. We'll see if he takes us to the Winchester before he finds that disc."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, back at Crowley's estate, Blanchard had dug up quite some interesting morsels on the little vixen. Crowley sat back, scotch in hand and smiled as he mused over his new knowledge of this girl. She was even older than himself, and a fine addition she would have been had she gone into sales as he had. But alas, she was twisted from the beginning it seemed—though apparently loyal nearly to a fault—the girl had been a pirate. Grainne O'Malley. So she'd kept her own name. It suited her, too. "Grace" in Gaelic, no less. His own native tongue. Her lilt had long since gone, but she stayed true to character. Stalwart, intelligent, cagey, and yet just as likely to jump into the fray as any of his black-eyed boys. Yes, here may be the alliance he was looking for, he thought. Must have her for dinner at some point and pick her brain, he thought. Knowing how steely her resolve must be and how downright scandalous some of her methods could be, he wondered how exactly she was getting on with dear old Gambian.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This story is about to go AU to the extreme considering season 10 shat all over my plans. Fine with me. I fart in their general direction. Don't like Rowena anyway, so…she's not here. Neither's Metatron and lots of other things. js

Cht 4

Grainne's steely wit and conniving nature served her well. She stepped lightly down an alleyway and rapped smartly on the graffittied door. A low pulsing thump reverberated beyond, and it was a moment before someone cracked it open.

"Whaddya want," queried the bulldog-faced man who placed a meaty hand on the edge of the door and peered out. Seizing the opportunity, Grainne slammed the door on his hand, and yanked it open again. While he howled and clutched his broken hand, she waved her own hand over the air in front of him and muttered,"_confringitis_" as she passed. Behind her, the man began gasping and clutching his throat, writhing and kicking as he struggled for air.

Grainne strolled through, unconcerned as the man slumped against the wall and his eyes rolled back. Through the dark hallway she clipped, stiletto leather boots muffled against the pulsing beat of drums and synthesizers. She wove her way into the crowd, corseted top and dark jeans garnering second looks from the men nearby and appraising ones from the women. People parted as she approached, unconsciously making a trail for her as she wove her way toward a set of stairs along the back wall.

She wound up the iron spiral, her gaze on the landing above, one brow perched sardonically and a quirk of a smile on blood-red lips. Grainne peered through strawberry blond fringe at an older gentleman who crossed the landing, gliding through the sea of writhing dancing bodies seamlessly and disappearing through an electric blue steel door. Grainne trailed him, past waving glow sticks and an eerie black light glow. She laid a hand discreetly on the door and looked around. "_Sine me audio_," she said, her voice pitched under the thrum of music. Instantly, a tinny version of all the sounds inside the room entered her ears as though she was listening through the door. A muffled voice on the phone, the older man speaking, no extraneous voices. Good.

She opened the door and stepped in. The man she faced could have been a dead ringer for Christopher Plummer.

"Well, well," Grainne smiled, "what a place for a deacon." She tsked and stepped further into the room. Her dark chocolate eyes flashed the color of pitch. "Gambian, we should talk."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, states away, Castiel shuffled through a home that smelled strongly of werewolf. Garth had been true to his word and housed the angel with his new wife, nursing him as best he could while he and the missus pored over tome after tome of Garth's library of all things creepy. He had compiled scores of angel lore in the years since he had discovered there was such a thing, and luckily it was paying off.<p>

"Oh my, oh my, oh my," Garth drawled. "Looky here, Castiel, I think we found your ticket back!" Castiel ambled over and perched on the edge of the battered armchair. It was a sketchy translation of an old Sanksrit text, and as his eyes skimmed over it they widened.

"This is a translation from Sanskrit, that was translated from Aramaic," Garth filled in. "It's another gospel that got deleted out of the biblical texts and lost in time," he went on. "It talks about the angel Berith."

"Berith was one of the fallen," Castiel supplied. "He was kicked out of heaven shortly after Lucifer, and became one of his demon followers. God took his grace and he died."

"According to this, he didn't die," Garth said, getting excited all over again. "According to this, he stole the grace of another angel and God meted out justice on him. He took Berith's grace and gave it to the angel whose grace he had stolen. "

"What?" Castiel gasped.

"The angel Dumah fought with Berith after the fall of Lucifer, because Berith rebelled with Lucifer. Berith said that if Dumah sided with the humans, he may as well be one. So he stole his grace, and Dumah became human; it says here he felt the pain and fever of falling."

"So I'm…falling?" Castiel reasoned out. "Wait! Dumah is still in heaven! He's a loner and no one talks about him much, he abstains from fighting."

"Now we know why," Garth drawled. "And," he stressed, "if you can find him, he can tell you how exactly God gave his grace back."


	5. Chapter 5

Cht 5

The summoning was easy. Everything went without a hitch, and yet Castiel was afraid for a moment nothing had worked. He glanced around, as did Garth, and neither saw a thing. Finally, with a rustle of wings, an angel appeared in the kitchen doorway, his outward appearance that of a rail thin black man with salt and pepper hair.

"Castiel," he intoned with a gravelly voice. "And a werewolf. You make interesting company these days."

"Dumah," Castiel breathed as he took a step toward him. Dumah merely cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at Cas.

"What's happened to you, brother?" Dumah queried. "Your grace is severely diminished! You feel as though you are falling…slowly." Dumah marveled at this as Garth cleared his throat.

"Look here, gentlemen—er, angels, how about we have a seat and discuss? Castiel here could use your expertise on the matter of his grace as it happens."

Dumah sat slowly, as though still on guard, but he listened intently as the angel and the werewolf brought him up to speed. When they finished, he sat silently a moment longer and nodded pensively.

"We have to get back to Metatron," he began, then raised a hand when Castiel began to protest. "We won't even have to release him. It is a simple enough spell that uses the words God spoke for me to receive Berith's grace as my own. That is the problem with your stolen grace you see, when it is not taken justly it fizzles out inside you and you fall anyway. We will return to heaven, Castiel, you and I. With me beside you, we will remind the other angels what happens when one's grace is stolen, and how God chose to rectify it."

* * *

><p>Miles away, Grainne stepped further into Gambion's office and sat herself idly back in a leather armchair across from his desk. It smelled vaguely of cigarettes as well, due to years of absorbing the smell into its fibers. Grainne steepled her fingers, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. Her auburn locks cascaded around her like a russet halo for the damned.<p>

"Grainne," Gambion said in measured tones. "You've been tracking me for days now. I am surprised at such a bold move."

"I had two other demons tracking me," she countered, with an arched brow. "I had to lose them first before I felt comfortable enough moving in to speak to you. I could tell they were not yours." The lies flowed effortlessly from her tongue. She was not surprised that he knew he'd been followed, but she wanted to distance herself from the others. "You'll forgive me if I want none of Crowley's pets to know we're on speaking terms."

Gambion merely inclined his head. "And what would we be speaking of?"

"Rumor has it that you may know the whereabouts of the new Knight. And anyone who no longer wishes to serve the old watered down king may be able to seek your counsel as to how to join the Marked One."

"Where do you hear such rumors?" Gambion's brow furrowed. "I have been outposted here since Lilith sent me and Crowley saw fit to leave me here." He nearly spat the last, and here Grainne found her opening.

"And a waste of talent it is," she spat. "Gambion! You who are older ever than I, wasting away in this ape infested den!" She allowed her chest to rise and fall as though impassioned at the thought of such an old and wise demon being relegated to a paltry Midwest town. His gaze flicked to her ample swells, barely contained in the steel blue corseting, and she lowered her eyes, looking up through her lashes. "You are far too powerful to stay under the thumb of a weakened king, and the new knight is just such a standard as is more befitting someone of your ilk…and mine," she added, uncrossing her denim swathed legs and allowing her knees to drift apart. His eyes raked downward with her subtle movement and she suppressed a smile. Males of the species were so easy, she thought, letting her hand drift upwards to trace around the base of her neck, once again drawing his eye to the expanse of exposed skin there. Her meat suit was lovely and she used this fact with ruthless abandon.

"Gambion," she purred, tracing the tip of her pink tongue across her upper lip, then biting her tongue as if hesitant to say the next. She glanced at him and allowed the barest blush to creep up, then leaned conspiratorially forward, her cinched cleavage nearly giving in to gravity. "I cannot obey a _salesman_."

* * *

><p>She waited three days for her tail to lose interest after talking to Gambion. She had known that she was being followed from the moment she left the office. She conspicuously "lost" Damian and Roland, which was a sign she had contrived with them beforehand. They had agreed before her meeting that if things went well she would shake them off and meet up again in Gardiner, Maine just in case she was followed by any of Gambion's henchmen.<p>

She spent the three days around town, wreaking havoc, making a couple of crossroads deals, trying it on with the locals. Mixing, mingling, enjoying the vices of humanity. Once they lost interest, she traced her way to the safehouse in the Northeast and let herself into a secluded cabin complete with angel proofing and a small weapons cache. Damian and Roland were there already waiting. At her command, they returned to hell to gather support. She had cased Gambion's club, church, and home and apprised them of the number of demons waiting at each location.

While Damian and Roland led the second stakeout to take out Gambion's guard, Grainne returned to hell to brief Crowley on the recent weeks' developments and what she had found out from her meeting with Gambion.

She found Crowley in his den, no traitor roasting this time. Adrina had been dispatched to the dungeons to wait out her punishment. He sat, as always, glass of Scotch in his hand, poring over contracts ad nauseum. Grainne stood watching while he was absorbed in his reading, taking in the curve of his hand on the parchment, the tip of his tongue between his teeth as he read. "Are you going to stand there for eternity, Grainne, or did you have news?" he barked suddenly. Grainne, arrested in watching him read, jolted visibly at his voice.

"I'm sorry of course, my lord!" she all but stammered. "I do have news, as it were."

He dropped his feet from the ottoman before him and gestured her to sit. As she lowered herself onto it, she caught his gaze drifting lower and realized she still wore the all too revealing corset. Grainne felt a flush creep up her chest to the tip of her nose at the unguarded look of lust on the king's face. Her breath caught, and her breasts rose with it. She cleared her throat once and his eyes flicked up to hers, a corner of his mouth turned up at her apparent discomfort.

"You look well," he said, a sardonic leer gracing his features as he leaned back in the chair. Grainne dropped her gaze and, remembering her purpose, cleared her throat once more before she began. "Yes, sir, well. And as I said," she spoke more strongly now, "I have news."

"Well, let's have it then." He raised his glass to his lips, eyes never leaving hers, and listened as she told him all of Gambion.

Crowley hummed low in his throat as she finished. "Well…," he said slowly. "well done, you."

"So, sir, what best course-"

"Leave our best course of action for now," he interrupted, waving a hand over her opening. "Enough talk of business, Grainne." He poured a finger of Scotch and offered it to her. Grainne would have preferred the Irish, but did not say so in her king's presence for in this he was still staunchly Scotsman and would not hear of it. She sipped gingerly, never having been one for spirits. She had liked to keep her head about her in business and so let the men always drink. It made them more pliable, she had found.

Drink could have no such effect on Crowley however, and he continued to regard her with that penetrating, unnerving gaze. She had not felt so flustered for decades.

"Tell the truth, Grainne," Crowley said at last, "and shame to devil." Still smiling, he placed his glass down and took her drink, his fingers brushing hers as he did. Grainne swallowed. "Do you not enjoy the pleasures of the flesh as well as your other black-eyed cohorts?"

Grainne's forehead wrinkled. "I, er…do, on occasion partake in some things. Vices aplenty," she said confusedly. Where was this going, she thought uneasily. "I have drink, as you see. I had a fair share of pizza since I was topside for the first time in ages…"

A deep low chuckle issued from her king and Grainne pursed her mouth and glanced at the crackling fire. Crowley reached forward, tracing a wave of her hair that dipped to the curve of her shoulder. "And sex?" he asked meaningfully.

"I…" Grainne swallowed, then tried again. "To be sure, your Highness, it is not a vice of mine."

Crowley's brow furrowed this time. Thoroughly nonplussed, he pressed, "lust is a vice most of us prefer to any other…tastes, if you will."

"I've not in my many years learnt to enjoy the experience, my lord, to be frank." Grainne was now thoroughly discomfited at the turn of the conversation, the closeness of her lord, the warmth of the fire and the drink in her belly. Her lips had been dangerously loosened and it was at the same time all too comfortable here and at once, not at all comfortable. "Sir, I-"

"How is it," he urged, "that you have not acquired a taste for something so pleasurable to so many?"

"Sir, we come from nearly the same time in history you and I, and the same place. Sex was always pleasurable pursuit for men, but not so for women by any means. Once dead, it was always a means of torture when I was on the rack and could hardly find that enjoy-"

"I see," he cut in once again. "My have you missed scores of opportunities, my darling." He shook his head almost imperceptibly and reached for her fingers. "I think I shall have to teach you what pleasure it can be for your sex as well," he said, his voice a velvet whisper. Those lips brushed her fingers and he pulled gently until she rose, unsure of her footing and completely unmoored by his attentions.

Crowley settled her into his lap, pulling the fingers he still clasped around him so that her hand brushed the back of his neck. He draped his other hand around her hip and pulled her closer. Her seat firmly up on his crotch, she felt the heat already and the butterflies stirred once again in her belly.

"Tell me, Grainne," Crowley said, his hazel eyes penetrating her darkened soul. "In all your years of life or afterlife, did anyone take their time with you? Seduce you properly?"

His fingers flexed on her hip while the other hand traced lazy drifts up and down her spine. Grainne shuddered.

"No, my lord," she replied, licking her lips as her gaze settled on his own. She found herself wanting to nip at him, just at the curve of his smile. "Sex was always a means to an end," she said, gesturing nervously, "erm…either to expedite a business deal or contract…or…"

"Hmmm," he purred. "I do believe in mixing business and pleasure just occasionally, but Grainne darling, one must make them enjoyable!" He smiled incredulously at her as the hand at her hip drifted up the curve of her waist and over the swell of her breast. She expected Crowley to begin groping and grabbing as men were wont to do, but instead his fingertips grazed softly upward, continuing their ascent to her jaw and cheek. He cupped her cheek and ever so slightly pulled until she lowered her mouth to scarcely a breath from his.

He flicked his gaze up, held hers. Then, just as gingerly, he brushed his lips across hers. Exquisite torture, she thought. What's he about? Before she had a chance to adjust, his tongue darted out and dabbed at her lips. She parted them on a breath and he captured her lower lip between his and nipped lightly. The hand at her cheek grazed lower again over the mound of her breast, squeezed lightly and traced its path back down her waist, to the hip again, flexing more strongly this time as her mouth opened more fully to his. His hips gave the vaguest buck under her and she tilted her head slightly to gain better access to his mouth. Her tongue darted in, tasting, savoring. Scotch was not so bad after all, mixed with the flavor of him.

She reclined slightly and barely noticed when her corset loosened on its own accord, spilling her breasts in an inviting avalanche of rose tipped snowy mounds. Crowley's hand returned to flick at the nipples which had hardened at their exposure. Her pants somehow now were simply gone and he nudged her legs slightly apart to glide his hand idly up and down the insides of her thighs. His tongue now darted and danced more insistently around hers and his other arm had come around to cradle her in her reclining state. She gasped, sighed, and nearly pushed against his chest for a reprieve when his hand suddenly clasped the apex of her thighs and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Grainne felt his smile into her mouth even as he started tracing lazy fingers in her curls, circling around the nub right at the top of her folds. "Ahhh," she groaned, her back arching reflexively. "Crowley!" At her mention of his name, he plunged two fingers into her and curled them. She bucked, gasping for air, as he clasped the back of her head and began his assault on her mouth again, this time in rhythm with his fingers. She bucked her hips repeatedly against his hand, writhing and stretching for some kind of release as a low pulling warmth began to spread in her belly. She felt his hardness beneath her straining against her bottom and knew that he was getting as much out of this as she, even when she lost her voice to a whimpering keening when his fingers curled up a final time and pulled deep inside of her. She came groaning his name, her eyes unfocused and mouth slacked. She went limp in his arms as she felt him buck hard one last time against her, fingers still inside her. He groaned softly as he eased his fingers out and she watched, her chest heaving as he slowly sucked them clean, his eyes never leaving hers.

He leaned down next, bit lightly at each nipple and then her lower lip and said, "now, my darling, do you see any redeeming value in the pleasures of the flesh?"


	6. Chapter 6

Cht 6

Days later, Grainne stood at the ready, facing Damian across the street as he posted up beside a white frame row house. Twelve other demons loyal to the king surrounded the other houses, which had been quietly and subversively taken over. Each demon carried a hex bag in their pockets that clouded the senses of those around them. They moved in stealthily, as the last house they were staking out was the house holding the demon Knight. Grainne's group, which had closed in around it would be the first wave in. Damian's group, which stood at the outer perimeter, would be the second wave. There were only three demons inside with the Winchester demon. Damian and his crew had already scouted the scene in the days leading up to this and now was the time to move in.

Grainne signaled to Damian, who raised a fist in response. With that, she patted the hex bag once to confirm it was still there, and ran up the steps, kicking in the door. Two of her demon crew moved in behind her while two other demons moved in the back. One more demon each broke through the second story door and a window by the fire escape. Then all hell broke loose.

The first thing that registered when Grainne and the others ran into the front room was that there were three demons waiting. She heard the commotion from the back of the house telling her that the two demons she had sent in the back door were engaged fighting still more, while the sounds that had broken out upstairs said there were others. She wasted no time wondering how they had been so far off in the numbers. She took out one of the demons who came at her, and turned to engage another. Behind her, both her king's demons grappled with the one burly one who was left. At close range, the enemy could see them. The hex bags only worked to cloak their movements as they closed in on their targets. Now the bags did them no good. She caught a blur in her periphery as one of her men fell down the stairs, eyes staring with the First Blade sticking out of his back. It was the last thing she saw before everything went black.

Grainne came to with a splitting headache. She looked at her lap and the dark stain on the denim, then she perceived someone standing just to her left and tried to strain her eyes to see. A scuffed pair of brogans with faded jeans was all she could see from the way her head was angled down, and she scarcely dared raise her head just yet.

"I know you're awake," a male voice growled, "_wakey wakeyyy_." He said it in a mocking singsong that grated on her ears. She raised her head and sure enough, Dean Winchester stood before her smiling grimly. Then his eyes flashed a glaring black.

"So," he said, "Grainne O'Malley."

Grainne tried not to wince at the fact that he knew her full name.

"I have to say, you guys fought a good game. Probably could have beaten all my boys…" he trailed off as someone else approached. "Except you didn't consider that I already knew you were coming." Grainne looked over and choked back a gasp. She strained against the ties that held her to the chair and glared at Damian who smirked back.

"Sorry about your boys," he grinned more openly now, "they chose a weak king. They had to go."

"Roland?" Grainne questioned, knowing the answer already.

"Gone." Damian smiled more broadly.

"And what of Gambion?" she said, momentarily confused. "You led the charge against him—"

"Of course I did!" Damian shouted suddenly. "He gave up the Knight's location all too quickly. He was not careful. He suspected you of trying to gain his trust and yet he still let you in on our little secret. He could not be trusted with something as big as this. He had to go. Besides," Damian grinned conspiratorially. "It helped solidify us with the king's and your trust, much to your ruin," he said, dropping the grin.

He stepped closer to Grainne and brushed a fingertip over her collarbone. "Word is the king thinks quite highly of you."

Grainne recoiled visibly in the chair as he bent down to her eye level.

"We're going to leave you alive, just for him. But we're going to make sure he gets the message loud and clear."

With that, Dean stepped forward with a syringe in his hand and smiled cruelly. "This won't hurt a bit," he said, then jabbed the needle into her bare arm and laughed softly when she jumped and yelped. "You're right. I'm lying. It's going to hurt like a bitch." And with that, he pushed the plunger into the barrel. Grainne watched as the needle emptied its contents into her veins and she swallowed as she felt the alien tickle of humanity siphon its way through her system. At a table off to the side sat donor bags of blood. _Just what in all hell was he doing_, she wondered.

She woke on the floor, her throat dry and parched, her whole body aching and wracked with fever. Dried blood crusted over open wounds and small pools of it lay in spots around her prone body. Footsteps sounded through the house, muffled voices echoing up the stairs through the hall to the room where she lay helpless. _Please let them end me now_, she thought. She had no hope of ever seeing Crowley again, and wondered fleetingly if they had staged a coup in hell. Grainne heard the door open and braced herself for another attack but instead heard a sharp intake of breath and then a voice, "Sir! Your Highness, I found her!"

Grainne's heart leapt at the thought. _Crowley_? As soon as the name crossed her mind, she heard his voice. "Grainne? Gah! Bloody hell! What did they do to you, pet?" Crowley hurried to her side and crouched beside her. She was so forlorn looking up at him that it nearly broke him. Cuts and gashes covered her, with big welts and bruises, and here and there little puncture marks.

"S-sir," she started, only shaking her head when he made shushing noises. "Sir," she continued, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry?!" Crowley gasped, "_sorry_? For what? You couldn't have known—"

"I failed you," she said, her voice broken with sobs. "I failed so completely. I didn't know about Damian. And they said…they said for my failure, they would punish me for you. Make it easy for you."

"What? How?"

She was so ashamed that she could barely whisper it. Crowley almost didn't catch it at all, except his gaze caught the table beside her chair and saw what was on it. He glanced down at her again and realized that the needle marks in her arms and neck were evidence of the punishment they had meted out. It dawned on him what she did not want to say out loud, "I'm human. They made me human. I'm so sorry."

Grim faced, Crowley swept the hair back from her brow and scooped his arms under her, lifting her up. In his mind he could hear his own voice again, "_where do I even start to look for forgiveness_?"

He could not wait to get his hands on Damian. "Bellamy," he addressed the demon who had found Grainne, still standing nervously just outside the door.

"Yes sir?"

"Tell Blachard he's in charge for the time being. I have business I had to attend."

"Yes sir." The demon was gone almost before the words were out of his mouth.

"Sir? What are you going to do with me?" Grainne asked grudgingly.

"What are you feeling right now?" Crowley asked.

"Famished," she replied weakly, "and so _so_ thirsty!"

"Then we're to find you food, water, and a place to rest…and I damn well know who better help!"


	7. Chapter 7

Cht 7

Sam rubbed his hand over his face at the red light, and sighed deeply. He turned the Impala into the hotel lot and parked, snatching the shopping bag out of the passenger seat and juggled it and the keys as he opened the door to the room. He tossed the keys on the TV console and placed the bag on the table, then froze.

"Hello Sam," said Castiel, seated on the edge of the bed.

"Heya Sambo," waved Garth as he exited the bathroom.

"Guys," Sam said, as he released a breath he was not even aware he had been holding. "How did you-?"

"Angel flight," said Garth. "Cas here's got his mojo back!"

"You do?" Sam's brow furrowed. "How?"

"One very simple spell as it turns out," Castiel replied. "The more important question is where to find your brother and how to remove that Mark."

"Yeah, I know," Sam said wearily, dropping into the chair beside him. Garth flopped down on the foot of the bed Cas was seated on and produced a bag of chocolate covered raisins from his pocket, offering them to the angel and hunter. Each waved them away.

Sam took out the take-out Chinese from his bag and gestured to Garth with the box of fried rice to see if he wanted some. Garth simply wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

Sam sighed and dug in briefly before he began telling the men about a group of demons he had tracked into town. "So apparently, all the activity that I've tracked here says they're right on the eastern edge, just off the center of town. I traced them to a series of row houses that are near an area called Devil's Path…?" He looked questioningly at Castiel.

The angel nodded, "I know of it, there was an old hell gate there that was closed by hunters a century or so ago. Dean may be trying to open it; I'm not sure why he would do that."

"Because he wants in the back door to hell," Crowley said from the back of the room. Sam's head snapped up and Castiel stood. Garth nearly fell off the bed and staggered closer to Sam and Cas.

"You!" Sam moved for a weapon before the girl in Crowley's arms stirred and caught his attention.

"Hallo boys," Crowley said grimly, taking the girl he was cradling over to the bed and settling her in it. She opened her eyes and looked at Crowley with a drowsy reverence and asked, "where are we?"

"Safe," he replied, running the tips of his fingers through the auburn hair. He kissed her softly, touched two fingers to her forehead and said, "sleep." Then he rose and faced the incredulous men in the room, two of them silently fuming.

Crowley raised both hands in surrender and said, "we should talk."

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Crowley and Sam stammered angrily but Crowley plowed on, "I didn't know what effect taking the Mark would do to your brother. I didn't even suspect until your brother turned down a bloody cheeseburger, _alright_?!"

He took a breath, then continued in a calmer tone. "Look, I know there have been cock-ups aplenty. Cain himself tried to talk your pig-headed brother out of taking the Mark. He even told him there would be terrible consequences but Squirrel wasn't hearing _any_ of it. He made his bed and now he's lying in it. And it wasn't near as much fun as I thought it might." He finished that last almost under his breath, grudgingly admitting that things had not gone the way he had planned. It was this though that convinced Sam to believe him.

Sam slowly sat again, never taking his eyes off Crowley. "So who's the girl?"

"A friend," Crowley said simply, then grudgingly at Sam's raised eyebrows, "a very _dear_ friend."

"She looks like a vampire got her," Garth spoke from his perch on the TV table. "Multiple times."

"It was no vampire," Crowley growled, "one of those fanged beasties couldn't take her. It was your bloody brother, Moose! I should never have let her go after him."

Sam looked at her neck, and the truth dawned on him. "Was she a demon?!"

"Was." The demon king replied grimly. He sat on the edge of the bed beside the sleeping human, and Sam marveled at the unguarded emotion on Crowley's face.

"You're in love with her," Sam accused.

The pained look Crowley shot him spoke volumes. "You did this to me, you know," Crowley said by way of reply. "I hadn't cared for anyone for centuries…bloody Moose!" He eyes teared up, Adam's apple bobbed and the words got stuck in his throat. "I needed someone," he said helplessly. "I thought maybe…when your brother woke… He was more demon than human. I, more human than demon…" Crowley trailed off, unsure how to continue, but Sam heard the words unspoken.

"I made you feel again."

"You made me feel all the nasty human emotions that get tortured out of you in hell," Crowley groaned. "I felt yearning and loneliness, remorse and guilt—everything I had been able to forget for years."

Crowley slid to the floor beside the bed. He passed his hands over his face and ran them through his hair, utterly helpless. "Knowing now," he said, still choking on the words, "how that felt for me. I know it must be a thousand times worse for her." He looked up at Sam through tear-swollen eyes. "Your thrice-cursed brother knew what human feelings do to someone, and he bloody _cured_ her! _Then_ they tortured her. Demons can stand so much more abuse than humans, and he made sure the worst of the pain was after the cure." The hands he had dropped to his knees fisted themselves in anger. "Now he will feel that pain—that remorse and that wrenching guilt for what he did to her. We bring Cain to cure him."

"Cain?" Castiel spoke up. "Cain is the one who-"

"The one who giveth is the one who can taketh away," Crowley cut in, his voice now stronger with resolve. "Cain wanted Dean to return to him anyway, but since 'Demon Dean' won't do it, we'll bring the battle to him."

"What will Cain do?" Sam asked tersely. "He's a demon too! How can we trust him?"

"Cain no longer wants to be a demon. We found that out when we talked. He was married, and Abaddon tricked him into murdering his wife. He would rather rest with her. Cain wants to die."

"So if we get Cain to Dean. He can remove the Mark and we'll kill him in exchange for helping us?" Garth marveled, scratching his head. "Seems like kind of a raw deal."

"Believe me," Crowley said grimly, "after millennia without love, death is nowt but a release."


	8. Chapter 8

Cht 8

Grainne coughed once in her sleep and a sprinkling of blood spattered the pillow on which she lay. Moved by her human suffering, Castiel swept over and touched fingers to her forehead. Grainne woke with a gasp as bones mended themselves, lacerations sealed together, and contusions faded to nothing. The only thing left of her pain was the groggy memory and tiny red flecks on white cotton.

She groaned and stretched, turning over to face a sea of concerned males. Crowley once again asked how she was, only to be answered with a dull rumbling from her stomach. Sam quickly divided up his take-out and she took the proffered raisins from Garth, only taking a handful. She had gone without food so long, Sam wisely suggested that she limit the raisins and eat mostly rice with a bit of teriyaki chicken. After a few bites, Grainne grudgingly conceded he was right, _but oh the taste of food again_, she thought. She would have filleted someone for loaded baked potato fries, but was afraid her weakened stomach would reject it. Crowley filled a tumbler of water from the tap and she forced herself not to chug it. Grainne allowed Crowley to settle her back against the headboard with a couple of pillows and took his hand when he bussed her eyebrow. Within a few more minutes, she was asleep again, still exhausted from her ordeal and even drained from the impromptu healing.

While she slept, the boys planned away. Crowley had tracked Dean's movements as far as Livonia, but after the attack, the demon knight and his minions had fled, leaving Grainne bloodied and alone. He now believed that the Hell Gate was a ruse to shake faith in Crowley's followers, and that when Dean decided to take hell, he would do it by kicking in the front door. It was, after all, the Winchester MO. So Crowley himself took on the task of securing Cain, but his stipulation was that Grainne be given safe quarters while he went on the lam to find the first demon. With all the unrest in hell, he did not trust his own demon minions to keep her safe. _Besides, hell is no place for a human_, he thought grimly.

* * *

><p>After much back and forth, they finally decided on keeping Grainne at the bunker safeguarded by Charlie and Garth. Sam returned to the bunker as well, for the time being, to start tracking different signs and incidents in an effort to pinpoint Dean's location again. He went on day trips out and back, investigating possible sightings. Castiel was in the wind again, seeing what information he could find from angels, wayward or heavenward.<p>

Three days later, when Sam sat poring over his laptop, Crowley appeared unannounced and started ferreting through the liquor supplies. "Hullo Moose," he said, by way of greeting.

Grainne came rushing out of the kitchen, wafting smells of rosemary and lamb behind her. "Crowley?!" she said, all but jumping into his arms. He nearly sloshed the finger of Scotch he had secured, but wrapped his other arm around her with a barely suppressed grin. "Gah! Gerroff woman! You're even more effusive than Juliet."

Stung, Grainne let go and started to turn back to the kitchen. Crowley placed the glass on the table, swept her up with both arms and spun her once. "Hallo darling," he smiled and placed a loud smack on her lips. "Miss me, did you?"

Grainne pursed her mouth primly, "I should—"

"Give your king a kiss," he finished with a saucy look, "I agree totally." He cupped a hand on her bottom and leaned in for a sweltering kiss while Sam softly cleared his throat at the table.

"Easy there, Moose," Crowley replied, breaking the kiss. "You'll get yours, big fella."

"No thanks," Sam replied, forehead wrinkling in disgust. "What have you got, Crowley?"

"Hello to you too," Crowley said, sauntering over and pulling out a chair to sit when Grainne traipsed back to the kitchen with a smile on her face. "Always good to see you."

Sam sighed.

"Down to business then," Crowley leaned back. "I found Cain, of course."

"Great! Where?"

"Same place he's always been," Crowley replied. "He never left, in fact. Problem is, Dean knows he's there as well. He's camped out in the town near Cain's farm, about fifty or so followers with him, all possessing townsfolk."

"Whoa," Charlie breathed. She approached from the library, and hearing the last bit of news, shook her head unbelievingly. "I've never seen that many demons at once."

"Nor do you want to, love," Crowley said grudgingly. "Best to get all the players on the chess board however. Where's Feathers?"

"In the wind," Sam said, gesturing vaguely. "He'll check in again soon though, I'm sure. He's here nearly every day so we can compare notes. Charlie and Garth have been helping out too, scouring Men of Letters records to see if there's a summoning for knights of hell, something they might have tried on Abaddon or even earlier."

"Good," Crowley said, "we'll need all hands on deck as it were. Got something I want to run by you lot. Meanwhile…what is that delicious aroma?"

He trailed off toward the kitchen to investigate the food smells and harass Grainne.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, Grainne took a luxurious soak in the tub. It had been strange being among the humans for days and the longer she did, the more she felt like her own humanity was slowing seeping back in to her very bones. She sighed deeply, washcloth draped over her eyes, and started violently when she heard Crowley's low hum of approval from the commode. She sat straight up, sloshing water all over. Grainne plucked the towel from the bath mat beside the tub and held it over her chest with one hand while she flipped the stopper up with the other.<p>

"Crowley, what are you doing in here?" she gasped, flush creeping high as he leaned on his perch trying to get a view of her in the tub. He sat on the lid of the toilet, foot propped on the opposite knee and a lazy grin spread cheek to cheek.

"Isn't that obvious darling," he replied smugly. "I wonder how you ever became a demon, modest as you are. Tell me love, whatever did you do to wind up in hell anyway?" He knew already, but was unendingly curious as to what she would say.

"Unethical business practices," she said primly. "Now OUT!"

Crowley chuckled. "Unethical?" he laughed. "Sweet love, you commanded pirate ships!" At her low growl, Crowley walked out of the bathroom and into her quarters before she finally stood to dry off. An idea struck her and she flicked a hand at the doorway, causing the door to swing shut with a slam and lock. Good, she thought, at least I still have my powers.

Once done, she pattered barefoot back to her quarters expecting to see Crowley gone. Instead he lounged idly on her bed, ankles crossed and one arm draped over his head against the headboard. He raised his brows as she entered at the towel draped around her curvy female form.

"Grainne, darling," Crowley began, albeit hesitantly, "weren't you married in your life?"

"I married a pissant named Donal for my father's associations and then a spineless wreck of man named Richard, who I promptly threw out as soon as it was feasible," she huffed and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. "Why do you ask? Especially when I'm quite sure you already knew."

Crowley merely smiled and placed a hand at her waist as though to keep her from sliding away, then sharply tugged the terry cloth. Grainne hissed and slapped at his hands when he put both around her waist and plucked her up over him, depositing her sprawling across the mattress. She spluttered and cursed, but Crowley merely settled his weight against her and smiled down.

"You—you, foul and loathsome—" her words were cut off by his mouth kissing her soundly. When he drew back for breath, she continued, "ornery cuss! You'll bring the whole house in here!"

"You will yourself, with your caterwauling," he grinned, "besides, I locked and warded the door. No Winchesters." He made a pronounced wiggle with his hips against hers and waggled his eyebrows playfully. "So. Exactly how much have you missed me and exactly what would you like to do now?"

Grainne started to protest, to lie, to hedge, but the memory of his mouth on hers and his hands…her train of thought trailed off even as her eyes glazed over. She knew what she wanted from him, because he had already given her a taste of things she had missed for years without a lover who knew how to pleasure a woman. Would a demon—nay, a demon king such as Crowley—make love? Could he? Or would it be a mere trifle to him? A dalliance or simple tryst would break her now human heart, she feared. But she also knew all too well how easily her heart had leapt when she heard his voice earlier that evening.

She had missed him, terribly, and she feared what may happen if he went into battle with a demon army fifty strong. He was good, her king, but no one was invincible. Still, looking back into his eyes as he waited expectantly by placing his elbows on the bed beside her ears, Grainne knew that whatever he asked she would give, and whatever he gave she would accept. Tears stung her eyes as she lifted her hands to his face. All the men in battle, every English governor, every man who had tried to tame her had failed. It took a being of unholy strength to do it, but she had finally been laid low.

"Show me," she said simply. "Everything."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I LOVED the red-eyed Crowley, do not get me wrong. But he is not here. ;)

Cht 9

Crowley's all too human heart lurched at the emotions crossing Grainne's face as she looked up at him. He saw the tears swimming and before they could spill, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her brow, then her hairline, his playful mood seeping away at the feelings that toyed and leapt within him. She had missed him, he realized, more strongly than he had originally thought when she jumped into his arms earlier that evening.

He settled himself against Grainne fully, taking his time. She looked wonderingly up at him as her hands drifted up to graze over his forearms. Crowley looked at her as if trying to remember every plane and angle of her face, his fingers teasing at her hair. He kissed the tip of her nose, her lips, and her jawline, before tracing his tongue across it again. On a sigh, she arched briefly under him and he returned his attention to her lips, which opened pliantly. He dipped in for a lazy kiss as her hands continued their exploration of his arms and sides.

Crowley leaned back and swept the damp towel from her, depositing it on the floor and sat on his haunches gazing wonderingly. Grainne immediately made to cover herself with her hands, but he caught them, kissed them. "Let me see you, love," he urged, and began shrugging out of his jacket. He loosened his tie, slipped it over his head. He could have snapped and dispensed with all of it, but now was not the time. He wanted to savor, wanted the human experience of watching her watch him undress. He unfastened the shirt slowly, button by button exposing the smattering of chest hair over the V of his undershirt. Sliding it out of the waist of his pants, he unbuttoned each cuff and let it slip from his arms. He tugged the undershirt over his head, and met her eyes. Crowley held the look for a beat before he grazed his hands up her legs, one on either side of him where he sat on the bed.

Grainne gave an involuntary flinch when he traced over her hips and Crowley could not help the smirk that crossed his face. "That's a good spot, isn't it darling?" Grainne nodded, her eyes nearly rolling back already, barely containing a squirm when his fingertips dipped up her waist and he slid his thumbs over her nipples. She uttered the barest moan, then bit back a stronger one when he placed his mouth there. His tongue flicked lightly over the puckered bud, and he sucked, stronger this time until she could hold back a moan no longer.

"That's right love," he plied her, "don't hold it in. Let me know how it feels."

He brought thumb and forefinger together and pinched both nipples this time. Grainne arched again, her knees drawing up and she sighed his name. "Crowley, please!"

"Please, precious?" he smiled. "Oh you do beg nicely, don't you darling?"

Crowley continued his slow assault on her senses. Nipping and suckling her neck and collarbone, moving in again to take her mouth. Grainne writhed now with growing abandon, wantonly cupping his bum, raking her hands up his back. Once she caught him with her nails as he nipped at her earlobe and his hips bucked into hers.

"Careful now, love," he chuckled, "this will be over too quickly if you keep that up."

He lowered his mouth now, taking each breast in turn, sucking hard on the undersides of them and raking his teeth across a rib. His hands continued ever lower, streaking across her belly and hips again, causing her to shift under him with the growing warmth that pooled where his fingers touched. He slid dexterous fingers over her labia, flicking a thumb over her clit and she moaned fully aloud this time when his mouth found its way there as well.

"Crowley, my god!" she exclaimed.

He pulled back just long enough to smirk up at her choice of words, then lowered his mouth again and lapped at her. Grainne's hand fisted in his hair, while the other clutched at the pillow behind her head. Crowley brought two fingers down and entered her, sucking and laving at her tender nub. She arched rhythmically with the movement of his tongue. He curled his fingers inside her in a _come hither_ motion that left her panting while that heat in her belly built to a pitch. Her back arced up almost painfully, hips grinding against his face when she came, screaming his name.

Grainne collapsed against the mattress, undone and overwhelmed by sensation. Crowley leaned up and gripped her hips. He pulled her down closer to him, her knees drawing back, splaying her sex, creamy thighs, everything open to his gaze. His eyes flicked back up to hers and his hand dropped to his belt buckle. Crowley unfastened it, watching her catch her breath, and slid the belt out of its loops, taking his time. He dropped the belt off the side of the bed, smiled a bit and said, "maybe next time."

Grainne wondered idly what he meant, but then he derailed her train of thought by leaning up and taking her mouth again. His tongue swirled and flicked against hers while he bumped and rolled his hips against her own. Grainne's hands snaked down, furtively seeking the hard length she could feel grinding against her. She latched onto the button of his pants and made quick work of it. She slid the zip down and poked a curious hand into his trousers, palming the thick member through silky boxers. She almost gasped in his mouth when she felt the size of him. _Would he fit_, she wondered almost in a panic. He moaned low into her mouth and she realized the effect her attentions had on him.

He broke the kiss, drew back to slide his pants down, then his boxers. His movements much quicker than they had been with his shirts, Crowley paused when he caught her looking wonderingly at his penis. "Didn't need a deal for this one, love," he smiled openly. "Meat suit's got the goods, eh?"

Grainne flushed, caught eyeing him like a virgin. "Crowley—" she began, trailing off when she realized she did not have the words for the question she wanted to ask. She just could not bring herself to say it.

"Come here, darling," he said, guessing at her hesitance. "It won't hurt much—only at first."

_For crying out loud_, she thought_, I'm not a virgin…but that is big_.

He settled himself against her and set about taking her mind off things. "We'll ease it in, eh?" he crooned, "there's a love."

He placed the tip at her entrance and pushed infinitesimally in and she gasped, not at pain, but at the feeling of utter fullness just inside. "Oh!" she sighed, "oh, Crowley!" _What would the rest be like?_

She grabbed his hips, unable to vocalize what she wanted, and pulled him closer. Taking the hint, he pushed in further. There was the dullest pull as he reached the tightest point and Grainne stopped pulling. Crowley settled for a moment, allowing her body to adjust to his minor invasion. He palmed her breasts and tweaked her nipples, dipped low to suckle them slowly and Grainne began to whimper. Crowley returned attention to her mouth, his hands tangling in her hair as she finally pushed her hips against his in response. He took that as his cue to continue and he thrust once. Grainne moaned his name in his ear while he kissed her temple. Slowly, languidly he began to rock into her. His thrusts pulsed over and over against her inner walls and she began rocking her hips back in counterpoint, their momentum building in tandem. There was a pressure building, right at her clit where the base of him butted up against it. She cried out when he cupped her shoulders and bucked harder against her, her hands cupping his backside again as if to guide him. Her legs locked around his waist as he lifted her hips and pulled back until he was almost out, then bucked back into her again.

Crowley growled low as he began to quicken his pace, watching her breasts bounce and jiggle nearly undid him, as did the wanton recklessness in her movements and on her features as her eyes shut, her breath coming faster in pants while he pushed deeper still and his hips started slapping against the her fleshy thighs and rear. He grasped the backs of her thighs fully and started pumping harder and quicker, her gasps and moans echoing louder and he could feel the telltale pulsing from her walls as she got slicker and yet tighter, clenching against his thick organ. "God! God! Crowley, please!" she begged, knowing not for what, as he pistoned into her, pumping in and out wildly, losing his rhythm as he felt his breath rasping and his sack tighten closer. His cock throbbed.

"That's it love," he gasped, "that's it! Give it to me, darling." He thrust once, straight to her core as her inner walls clamped around him. She came on a scream, her hands fisted in the pillow above her head and her legs splayed in a V with her thighs in his hands. He lost himself completely and came at the sight of her so undone before him.

Crowley slowly lowered her legs to the bed, his breath rasping. Before she could slide her legs together and tuck them to either side of him, he lay down atop her, hands fisting again in her hair and claimed her mouth with his, as if branding her for his own. Her legs slid closer to his, linking around them and her hands once again rested on his bum. Grainne pressed a kiss to his chest when he pulled back to look down at her, and he gave her a drowsy smile. His gaze flicked down to her still heaving chest and he cocked his head.

"I do love this body you have," he began.

"Just the body?" she asked, then realized how completely doleful the question sounded, especially at such a moment. Regret darkened her features and she turned her face away. Crowley merely caught her chin in his thumb and forefinger, turning her back to meet his eyes.

"_Mo__chroí_," he crooned in their old tongue, "_mo chailín__lómhara_, do you not think I have feelings for you as well?"

"Crowley," she said, the tears that had threatened earlier finally escaping at the tenderness of his tone and the words she had never heard in life from any man, "how can you? Being what you are?"

She did not say it outright, but Crowley knew what she meant.

"You know well that I have been dosed with human blood, love. It makes me feel every bit of what humans suffer from," he said, framing her face with his hands, "even blasted love for crying out loud."

He waited until her eyes had searched his face and again met his, her brown to his hazel. He kissed her once, sweetly, and said simply, "_is breá liom__tú amhlaidh__go mór_."

* * *

><p><em>Mo<em> _chroí__-_ my darling

_M__o chailín__lómhar-_ my precious girl

_I__s breá liom__tú amhlaidh__go mór__- _I love you so very much

For more information on Grainne O'Malley's life, read this more amusing version (beats Wiki):  
>.<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

Cht 10

Grainne rolled over and sighed, her hand drifted to the pillow where Crowley had lain, only to find it empty and cold. She did not blame him for leaving. He was a demon after all, and had no need to sleep. She wished that he had stayed though, and a little tug at her heart told her that she was risking heartbreak expecting Crowley to be something he wasn't. There would be no mornings waking up wrapped in a tangle of limbs together. He would never make a sloppy attempt at breakfast; she would likely never get flowers or boxes of chocolate. Did she want that? Pitter pattering feet down the hall? It was more likely to be hellhounds padding through the corridors. They were at an impasse, she reasoned as she stretched and slid her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. She was no longer a demon; he, no longer a man. It would never work. And after this battle, she admitted grimly, either or both might be dead regardless. Best to take all you can, while you can, she decided and stood to dress for the day.

Crowley may not have slept with Grainne, but he did not leave the bunker straightaway. He spent the wee hours with Castiel once Sam finally had to beg off and go to sleep. But before the Moose loped down the hallway to his slumber, Crowley had a gentlemen's agreement between the three of them. He was out. This marked the last time he stuck his neck out for the greater good. He was done. He had spent hours holding Grainne while she slept, formulating his great exit. He wanted to go out with a flourish, and this seemed just the way to go. He could not give Grainne what she wanted, he had seen in her face how far gone she was for him. He had felt it when they made love that night. As woman and demon, she would always be a liability for him, and he would always have to watch their backs. After tonight, that would be no more.

Shortly after dawn broke, while Grainne was busy dressing in her room and Moose slept fitfully on, Crowley left to find Blanchard in hell. Castiel took to the winds and touched down in front of Cain's hearth for a tête à tête.

By the time Grainne was dressed and ready, no one remained in the bunker except Sam who roused himself after a mere few hours' sleep. He stumbled in and gratefully clasped the coffee cup Grainne placed in his hands. She mused sullenly over the fact that she would be unable to fight. Her humanity had made her vulnerable in that she still needed time to heal her wounds. There were cracked ribs, a concussion to deal with, and she was in no shape for the monumental battle that would go on without her. She hated the ladylike trope of staying home and wringing her hands, but here she was stuck with it as her lot. She resolved to make the best of her time and set about making a celebratory meal the boys could all heat up whenever necessary. Lit the fire in the hearth, delved into the ingredients supply and began making healing potions and herbs for anything in case the angel didn't make it; Piled salt and fuel in case any of the hunters didn't. She went about the bunker, doing chores that ruthlessly included any possible outcomes. And all the while, Grainne refused to consider the possibility of Crowley not making it.

The men meanwhile had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Instead of meeting the charge of fifty demons head on, they chose a neutral playing field and a surprise attack. Each man convened in the dense wood above ground over the bunker, all of them grim-faced and determined. The fight had left Cain along with the Mark, as it was this which gave him his bloodlust. He was ready to meet his fate however, and what lay beyond. They silently set about crafting two concentric circles on the ground—a much smaller within a larger one.

Some minutes later Crowley, Sam, Castiel and Cain stood in the larger circle aside a bowl set alight with some of the ingredients for the spell. They cast the rest of the ingredients in, one at a time, while Sam chanted:

_Ego__vocare__te__et__moneo__,  
><em>_maxime__in spiritu immundo__,  
><em>_frater__, __peccator__, __warrior__  
><em>_qui__erraverat__,  
><em>_hic__nunc_

He sliced his hand over the bowl letting a few drops of blood spill into the bowl. It hissed malevolently, the flames sparking a violent deep blue. 

"By these words, by our blood, be here now!"

Inside the smaller circle, Dean appeared with a flash of flame.

"What the hell!" he exclaimed, turning in the circle and looking at each face ringing him in the outer circle. Before he could get his bearings, Castiel and Crowley grabbed an arm each while Cain lunged for the First Blade tucked into Dean's inner jacket pocket. With a flash, Cain sliced a swath through the Mark, as Sam continued chanting:

quid factum est,  
>nunc solvere,<br>Verum revertimini ad formam.  
>Ex tua essentia est macula inficit misit<p>

Dean yelled, jarring Crowley's and Castiel's grip, but the men held tight as the Mark sizzled and faded. Cain let out a strangled cry and clutched his arm as the Mark returned. Sam swiftly seized the First Blade, which had dropped when Cain staggered towards him and dropped to his knees. Without hesitation, Sam sliced the Blade through the air and barely broke stride as it cut straight through the old Knight's neck. Cain's head dropped to the ground with a thump and his body slid down beside it. Hands shaking with the aftermath, Sam looked up to where the other three stood gaping, chests heaving with effort while they slowly stepped apart.

"Well," Crowley said breaking the stunned silence. "That's that then."

Sam and Castiel nodded numbly, while Dean still struggled to grasp what had just happened. "It's—it's gone," he stammered.

"Yeah dude," Sam answered slowly. "It's gone."

Then, brother to brother they moved toward each other, clasped arms and pulled each other into a tight embrace.

First part:

I summon and conjure thee,

most unclean spirit,

brother, sinner, warrior

you who have strayed,

be here now

Second part:  
>what was done,<p>

we now undo,

return you to the form that's true

Out of your essence the tainted blemish is cast


	11. Chapter 11

Cht 11

Grainne sat, left ankle across her right knee, foot jiggling. A small pile of items sat on the table in the middle of the room and sadly, had not taken long for her to rummage around for in case of any emergencies. Her thumb idly sought her mouth and she gingerly chewed at the nail, her eyes on the crackling fire before her. Would that she could get ahold of the demon Knight—he'd be stewing in his own juices over that flame. Her eyes narrowed as she hopped up and started pacing again. It had been a few hours, but it felt ages. _How long would it be_, she wondered to herself. She tried again to interest herself in the books on the shelves, browsing them idly, casting aside a copy of _Busty Asian Beauties_ with an eyeroll. She grabbed a copy of _Mythological Beings of Ireland_ with a derisive snort and started to thumb through the yellowed pages.

The door upstairs slammed open, both Winchesters taking the steps at a leisurely pace. Behind them followed the angel, before finally Crowley strolled through, a casual hand in his pocket as if he did things like this daily. At the sight of him, Grainne released the breath she was holding and started forward, the book dropped forgotten on the floor. She stopped abruptly, unsure of how to continue. Would he want an embrace? Did he care that she had been waiting so impatiently? Their eyes met as Sam briefly brought her up to date on Dean's cure and the spellwork involved. She barely heard a word, only wondering what in the world Crowley must be thinking right now. Grainne uttered words of relief and congratulations, but they sounded hollow coming out of her mouth. It sounded as though someone else was talking, as though from a distance.

When the conversation finally ebbed, Crowley stepped closer, brushing a hand down her cheek and kissing her brow. Grainne stifled a sob and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. Crowley aimed a smug smile at the boys, over the top of her head. Since Sam looked every bit as confused as Dean felt, he didn't question it. He looked at Castiel and the angel merely shrugged dismissively. Crowley led her over to his favorite chair and poured two fingers of whiskey from the decanter on the end table beside it. He held her in his lap and reveled in the feeling of someone being so concerned for his welfare as to be beside herself. He marveled at the fact that anyone would, and he felt resolved more so now in his plan. He would start the second part tonight while she slept.

Crowley bided his time through dinner and more conversation afterwards, his mind far away. Grainne sensed he was preoccupied, but he demurred at her questions. He held her again that night as she passed into a troublesome sleep. Once she seemed that she was sleeping deeply enough, he rose and met the Winchesters back in the dungeon.

"Well Moose," he said lowly, "kept my part of the bargain—helped you and yours. Time for that reciprocation, eh?"

"Yes," Sam said levelly. "Just as we discussed. Everything's ready."

Crowley looked questioningly at Squirrel. "Yeah man, I'm all in. It's the least I could do and hey, it ain't gonna hurt me much. And—" he added as Crowley started to walk toward the devil's trap. Crowley stopped. Turned.

"Tell her again, I'm sorry. Please."

Crowley merely nodded solemnly and turned to the chair in the middle of the pentagram. He sat casually this time, the chains left dangling, and crossed his ankle over the opposite knee. He looked up at the boys, a small smile playing over his features. Dean took a needle of blood—his blood—from the side table.

"Well man, it'll only feel like a little prick."

"Bet that's what you say to all the girls," Crowley quipped as Dean stuck the needle in the demon's neck. The procedure passed much quicker this time, Crowley growing more expansive and talkative as the human blood started to affect him. They had decided using Sam may restart the trials, so Dean volunteered. Crowley assured them that with Blanchard now in charge of hell, he would maintain order and discipline even better than Crowley had. So Crowley sat with his favorite boys, hour upon hour, til the dawn broke through the trees in the forest above and reminisced with them about their ups and downs. About an hour after dawn, Crowley rose finally, a bit lightheaded and walked right out of the circle. The boys packed up their materials, and Crowley thanked them briefly before they finally headed to bed.

When Grainne woke shortly after, Crowley was snoring softly next to her, passed out face first in his suit. He had only bothered to remove his shoes.


End file.
